The Freedom to Die Gracefully
by LostCompass
Summary: As with any deal, free will has a catch.
1. Crossing the Thin Red Line

_Devil May Cry and all related material is owned by Capcom. Not me._

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry?"<p>

The man drew back, his eyes suddenly glinting with doubt- and the tiniest spark of fear. "I- I thought..."

Marlow laced his fingers together, resting them on the glass counter-top. This was bound to be intriguing.

"I mean, I was told... you were a..." The man threw a glance around the (woefully) empty store, looked over his shoulder at the door, and then leaned forward. "A... a Devil Ea-"

"Sir," Marlow began carefully as possible- not too stern, but stern enough- "I am an owner of an antique store. Nothing more. I am not a fortune teller, or a tarot card reader, or a palm-" He stopped, as the man was rummaging through his jacket pockets. A stack of wrinkled photographs were slapped onto the table, plus a bundle of faded hundreds. From the worn look of the guy, this was just about all he had to his name, no doubt.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely, leaning forward over the counter. "Whatever it takes. I'll do anything. Name it. Please, just-"

He reeked of desperation and hollowness and something _else_- something... Marlow took a step back, subconsciously covering my mouth. "Okay," he mumbled from behind calloused hand. "Okay. I'll... look. I'll try." He slid his money across the counter. "Don't pay me. Not now- yet, anyway," Marlow added, casting an eye around the store and remembering rent was due- again- as were his loans._ Shit._ "Is there anything you can tell m-"

The man shook his head, pointing to the photographs. "Wrote it all down," he said. And with those four words, all of his resolve seems to melt away, and just as quickly he murmured a 'thank you' and melted through the door into the overcast afternoon.

Marlow hadn't even caught his name.

But as he sat down heavily in his favorite desk's armchair, greeted by the familiar creak of well-oiled leather, he realized that he didn't need to know his client at all. Technically, the 'client' was the boy in the photographs.

The boy's body, anyway.

With a small shiver, Marlow reached for a desk drawer containing a box of cigars and a bottle of brandy- both unopened, both gifts. He did not smoke nor drink; both, he had quickly realized, did not calm or focus him, but simply made the cases he took so much more terrifying, so much more unreal. But his fingers rested on the brass handle, tapping out a nervous rhythm to match his heartbeat. _Am I really going to do this?_

The first photograph was of a smiling family. Husband, wife, two sons. Completely picturesque. Looking at the back, Marlow found nothing.

Second photograph was of a suburban house, somewhere; certainly not Chicago. Grass didn't come in that shade of green around here. Short driveway, two-car garage, basketball hoop, nicely manicured lawn, trimmed hedges, doghouse, a frisbee left carelessly on the roof. Flipping it over, he found a scrawled note in thick pen:

_Maple St._  
><em>Belleville, Illinois<em>

_Lived in for whole life._

Marlow frowned, but continued. The photos became more and more mundane- a birthday party, specifically, the youngest son's eleventh- his name, Zach, emblazoned on a pirate ship-shaped cake. A flag football game, the mother and father cheering as their son charged yard after yard. A first day of school, a bell tower rising behind the nervous-yet-exciting boy. Zach again, hugging the family dog and grinning along with the mutt.

Then... the pictures became more intriguing. One of Zach, at a community pool, looking thoughtful- but oddly so. In the past photographs, he had always had a sort of childish nonchalance in his eyes. But this one- Marlow squinted until he could see the individual inkdots of color- this was different. Like the boy had... _seen_, or _heard_ something that was entirely new, yet completely sensible.

When the next few photographs where of a mental hospital, a courthouse, and two graves placed very close to one another, it all made sense. Another of a bedroom, comfortable and pristine, labelled on the reverse side:

_Scene of accident._

Marlow leaned back, setting the photographs on his coffee table. He had more than enough information to deal with this case. But but he had less courage than he would've liked.

* * *

><p>The first call he made was to the house itself- the client had provided the address, and that just meant a short skim through the phonebook.<p>

Of course, given that two of the occupants were murdered, one was detained in a mental hospital or detention center, and another was wandering the streets of Chicago like a maniac, no one was going to pick up. Marlow scratched at his hair in irritation- he really shouldn't have let the guy go like that. Just that the damned smell-taste of sin... hung around him like flies to a corpse. And to imagine that the poor guy- Steve, was his name- had picked it up only from a stronger source...

He got to the voicemail.

"Hello! We're sorry, but we're not home right no-" Marlow hung up quickly. He didn't like hearing the dead speak. Wasn't right.

The second call was made to an... 'associate' in Springfield. He made the numbers spin, and waited patiently. He counted the burnt-out bulbs of the crystal chandelier hanging above his head, wondering if all that sharp, heavy glass was enough to kill him, when-

"'Ello?"

"Cecil?"

"Marlow? Fuck's sake. You forget to wind your fuckin' clocks?"

Marlow glanced up at the grandfather leaning patiently against the wall, and then to the pitch-black window. He was strung out and paranoid, and that was better fuel than any coffee. "Something along those lines. Listen, I, uh... have a house I need to check out in Belleview."

A yawn on the other line, followed by the voice made raspy by sleep. "That's great. It also has nothing to do with me." If it were a normal job, it wouldn't. Marlow often visited the houses of aging collectors and extraordinaires to value their antiques. Not exactly an exciting job, but you met quite a few interesting people.

"_Ac-_tually, it does. I need you to help me check it out."

A long pause. "Marlow... no, I'm not-"

"I'm sorry, Cec. I really am, I fuckin' swear on the... on... my_ life._ But this guy- more like a kid- he came to me, like he was dying-"

"_Jesus Christ_, Marlow. How long was it since the last one? A few months?"

Marlow's voice dropped to a flustered mumble. "No, year and a half-"

"And you can't say Bible, still."

The word made Marlow squirm and sink deeper into his chair, as if he could hide in it. The hair on his arms was standing on end- he smoothed them out nervously. "That's not the point. I have to help-"

"Why? These things happen, you aren't a priest. Let it go." Click.

Marlow sighed and rubbed his eyes as he set the old phone back on the hook. He then reached into the second drawer in his desk- one that held a fierce, wickedly saw-toothed hunting knife. He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully, feeling the worn leather grip, the point, the edge- sharper than any needle, any razor.

Seemed like all he was doing these days was serving in Hell.


	2. This Old House

Marlow set in his cellar, cradling a bottle of wine in his trembling hands.

Did he drink? No, never enough to become out of touch with reality- the reality, as it was, he struggled daily to grasp. A quarter-glass of wine (_white_ whine- red reminded him too much of blood), every night before he went to sleep; it calmed his nerves. At least, he thought it did, and that was good enough for him.

It was odd, really. Down in this poorly lit and cramped winecellar, nestled between the racks of casks, Marlow felt safe. The only safe place in the world, to him.

With the point of his knife, he pried at the wire hood and uncorked the bottle. A pleasant scent of grape vines and rolling hills and slightly dewy mornings filled the small cellar.

Then again, any place with him in it wasn't so safe.

* * *

><p>The three-hour drive to Springfield was, thankfully, uneventful.<p>

A gentle morning mist had swept across the freeways and intersections, seeming to follow him wherever he went. His rust-colored sedan seemed to float in a sea of gray, only occasionally met with brakelights that would disappear as soon as he saw them.

Marlow kept his eyes off the fuel gauge, not wanted to think about the price of gas. He probably couldn't, if he tried; the photographs of the shattered family flashed through his mind, again and again. He missed a few stoplights on account of that, actually.

The warped crackle of the radio would give him no respite, either. Either the news would report a string of murders and suicides, or the music stations would sing about strings of murders and suicides. He turned it off.

He simply kept his eyes on the road, and wondered, wondered, why he continued to do this.

* * *

><p>"No."<p>

Marlow stared at Cecil, blinking a few times.

His entire plan had hinged on the assumption that Cecil would join him, once Marlow showed up on his doorstep, ritual knife in hand. With one word, that plan had fallen to pieces around their feet, making little noise against the soft carpet.

"Cecil, please. I can't- I can't do this _alone_-"

"Marlow, I can't do this shit anymore. _Cannot. Fucking. Do this_. Do you-" Cecil threw up his hands, spun on his heel, glaring at the ceiling as the angry words tumbled out- "do you even understand what it's_ like_, trying to be a good, God-fearing Christian when you're always snooping around, trying to exorcise this, de-baptize that? What it's like knowing that out of fucking nowhere, a devil might think to possess me, or someone I care about? I have a damned_ family_, now."

There had always been that knowledge that he was always endangering Cecil, that he had to protect him, his wife, his child on the way. But, of course, by the nature of the job, protecting Cecil meant painting him as a target. "I know, I _know_, but-"

"No. I've got too much to live for now." Cecil shoved a bottle of water in Marlow's hand, hustled him out the door, and slammed it behind him. "And for God's sake, be fucking _careful_ out there!" he called out from within.

* * *

><p>Marlow drove around Springfield aimlessly for fifteen minutes before he found a quiet little cafe. He parked, cut the engine, and suddenly all ambition for coffee fled him. He simply sat there in the driver's seat, fingers drumming a slow, tuneless rhythm against the steering wheel, absently watching the busy street in his rear view mirror.<p>

Really, all that had held his and Cecil's friendship together was their bleak lot in life. Marlow, owning an antique shop with foreclosure looming every month, and Cecil, heading a barely-afloat law firm that specialized in being too heartless for the average man, but not heartless enough for the average businessman.

If the thought of having only one friend on a technicality wasn't depressing to Marlow, he really didn't know what was.

* * *

><p>Well, this was his stop. Maple St. of Belleville, Illinois. Neatly manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, the occasional rosebush.<p>

The house of interest was easy to spot- not only from staring at the photograph of it whenever he hit a stoplight, but from the yellow **_DO NOT CROSS_** crimescene tape that mummified the front door.

He parked against the curb- seemed rude to just leave his car in the driveway- and walked up to the front door hesitantly. Marlow wondered if maybe there was a back door or a window he could scramble into, but before he knew it, he had parted through the yellow tape with a single, smooth cut from his knife.

The house was well-lit, thanks to the current trend of suburban-houses-with-big-windows. Even so, he flipped on a few lights, just to feel slightly safer. Not that he was afraid of the dark; only afraid of what lurked in the dark.

Up the stairs. Three doors down, and a left. The parent's room: blood in the carpet, pen outline of two bodies. Little folded monogrammed cards showing each piece of worthwhile evidence. Signs of slight struggle. Mild smell of forensic chemicals.

And sitting contentedly on the ruffled sheets of the bed was a devil.

Marlow felt a cold fear begin to solidify in his throat and chest. The devil looked up from a book it was reading- "The Power of Positive Thinking"- and bookmarked the page with a needle-nailed thumb. "Rather strange material, I must say. This kind of unfettered optimism so favored by humans almost seems to invite disaster; no forethought, no consideration for consequences; a fetish for inevitability. Quite irresponsible. Quite destructive." With a small thoughtful "hmph", the devil set the book beside itself on the bed. There were smoking singe marks where his huge hands had clasped the cover.

This wasn't how he expected it. The boy was still supposed to be possessed. This was just supposed to be an information-gathering tour. He wasn't ready. He wasn't-

The devil tapped a long nail against his snout thoughtfully. "You haven't the slightest idea as to why I'm here, do you?"

Marlow opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out the devil had leaped from the bed and planted a hard taloned kick into the center of his chest, sending him flying out the door into the hall, hitting his head against the doorframe. Gasping and clutching at his burned chest, Marlow struggled to flee, using the corridor wall for support. But the devil easily routed him; it sat back on its spiny haunches, tail swishing back and forth, wings neatly folded. Those eyes, those burning pits that casted their own scalding red light upon Marlow- they held nothing but scorn.

"Your every chance has been squandered. Your Lord has shown mercy, for you held such great potential- but now, as any man or soul may behold, you are no longer of any-"

With a snarl, Marlow had unsheathed his knife and driven it into the thigh of the devil. The blade smoked and hissed as it ate through the crimson-black scales, but the sinful creature simply looked down with a patronizing smile.

"Use," he ended, and directed another hard kick at Marlow's jaw. He jerked his head out of the way, but a talon grazed his ear. With a yelp of pain, he dove between the devil's legs, gritting his teeth as the spaded tail lashed at his back. Bounding down the stairs, Marlow looked around, panic gripping him as the knife in his hand continued to hiss, hungry for more.

It was worth a shot. Darting into the kitchen, Marlow looked around- a cross on the wall? A cross-magnet on the refrigerator? No, nothing, nothing he could use. Except...

Marlow tore at the calender hanging on the kitchen wall, flipping through the months. Just as the devil calmly sauntered in, cracking his pointed knuckles, a picture of the Nativity scene was shoved into his snouted face.

"Oh, _please_," the fanged fiend said, trying to bat the calendar out of his way with a wingtip. Even so, it kept its distance from Marlow, who was now backed up against the kitchen sink, his shield held out at arm's length.

"What the fuck do you _want?_"

"This very moment? A magma martini, a molten beach, a harem of lascivious virgin succubi. What I need is your _soul_. Do stop being unreasonable." It bared its fanged smile- more like a mouth full of broken glass than a smile, really. Cruel light poured from its open maw.

The calendar flew at his head, and that blasted picture of a newborn Jesus just missed his pointed ear as Marlow rushed forward with a stab. The devil easily spun out of the way, but Marlow grabbed at one of the leathery wings as he passed, his weight forcing it open, and drove the knife through it from back to wingtip.

With a laugh, the devil delivered another kick to Marlow, this time to the back. This sent him rolling out of the kitchen into the foyer, where the two opponents found themselves circling each other.

Smoke wafted from the devil's nostrils. "My employer warned me that you were ever so deceitful, Whitechapel. Astoundingly so. Your very greatest quality."

"I like to think of it as... I don't know... _abstract?_" Marlow came forward with a feint, followed by a narrowly parried thrust. "Do you have a name? Or have you not decided?"

"In your language, the theologians named me L'Arcophraxeles. Unseemly. Cacophonous. Most grievous of all, ll-fitting; alas-" A thrust punch narrowly missed Marlow's head, scraping off a few hairs. His ears were ringing from the small sonic boom the devil's knuckles generated. The wall behind him bore a smoldering crater. "Reputations are so difficult to amend."

A kick, a punch, ending with a swift cut. "So I noticed." He took burns, but Arco lost blood. The black liquid hissed as it burned through the carpet. Flakes of charred flesh fell from Marlow's arms like ash.

"It's time to come home."

Sirens wailed outside the house. Marlow looked out the window at the flashing red and blue lights. It was only then he noticed the house was ablaze- ignited by the devil's black blood.

"Your fellow men will bear no love for a fallen human." Arco grabbed Marlow by the throat, holding him to the fire. He desperately kicked and stabbed at the devil's arm and face, but Arco simply smiled, forked tongue flicking in and out- he had been playing with him, this whole time.

* * *

><p>The police reports would later say that a single armed male suspect was found in the residence, thrashing in the flames and screaming. When he was pulled out and loaded into the ambulance, entire body covered in third-degree burns, he continued to flail and scream unintelligibly- but if one had listened closely, they could make out the words.<p>

"Ave Mundus! Ave Mundus! Ave Mundus!"

The house burned to the ground.


	3. Hello Darkness, Oldest Friend of Mine

All was silent. All was still. In the darkness, he was safe.

* * *

><p><em>"Behold; how thy blood, thy bone betrayeth thee, o beseecher of devils.<em>

_By every beat of your wretched heart, by every stolen breath, your soul succumbs ever closer to me._

_I shall wait for thee at the mouth of the void. Do not disappoint me."_

* * *

><p>The first thing Marlow heard was his heartbeat, a slow, weeping tune, almost as if discouraging him to keep living. It was only when he opened his eyes to a blinding, sterile white room did he realize what he heard was a heart monitor.<p>

He groggily rolled his head to the left, crackling pieces of dead skin sticking to the pillow, his eyes tracing the countless tubes that hooked him up to a neat row of beeping, blinking machines. There was enough technology to bring back a dead man, he thought. How... fitting.

Marlow had fought devils before. Fought them and won. But this... he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember the one who had bested him so effortlessly. L'Arcophraxeles, he remembered. That snouted, fanged face the color of ashes and embers and pain. That probably wasn't even his true form; in all likelihood, Arco had assumed that disguise to lull Marlow into a sense of control.

The heart monitor beeped faster as Marlow opened his sticky eyes again, glaring at the too-bright LED striplights in the ceiling. Control. That was the last thing Marlow had in his life, and all it took was to have that damned knife in his hand to make him think otherwise.

He tried to move, but his entire body was leaden, scabbed over with oozing pustules that burst with his every movement. Even covered head-to-toe in dressings, some of the bloody yellow-gray pus managed to seep out onto the white bandages. Everything itched below his skin; his skin was dead, but hell, it was like he was still simmering at a slow roast in that burning house...

That house. The man back at the store. The possessed boy. Marlow felt a chilling wave of helplessness wash over him as he thought of Arco still haunting that family... damn that devil. That family had done nothing wrong. Why did others have to suffer in Marlow's place? He almost wanted Arco here in the hosptial room, where he could make sure he wouldn't hurt anyone else.

... Well, maybe not right *in* the room. Maybe outside, in the waiting room.

"You're alive. Good."

Marlow painfully rolled his head to the right, blinking the blur from his eyes. A woman in a dark suit and shades approached the bed, gloved hands gripping the bedrail as she leaned over Marlow. She stared at him so intently, he could almost feel her eyes behind the black lenses.

"Incredible. The paramedics said you should've been incinerated in that fire, and the doctors that you'd die in less than a day. But here you are; God must've taken a liking to you."

Marlow flinched at the thought. "Who..." he coughed suddenly. His throat and nose was sore, raw from the smoke. The hospital-disinfecant smell wasn't helping either. "... 'r you?"

She reached into her suit pocket (Marlow nearly had a heart attack, for he expected a pistol) and pulled out a wallet, letting it fall open to show an oddly shaped silver badge and the ID of a grim-looking young woman. He couldn't read the small text. "Inspector Walker. Federal Bureau of Normality Enforcement."

Another wave of hopelessness, this one with a high concentration of fear. The FBNE.

Walker pulled up a stiff plastic chair and removed her sunglasses, crossing her legs and pulling out a compact PDA. "Would you be willing to answer a few questions for us, Mr. Whitechapel?"

Us. That was... creepy. "Just tell me... what you want," Marlow muttered around a numb tongue.

Walker looked at Marlow directly, and he could see now... she understood. Those eyes. Hard, lightless inkwells of anticipation and suspicion. She had seen devils, what they were capable of. "Whitechapel," she said sharply, "to be brief, you're being given a get-out-of-jail-free card. The devil you found in that crime scene has been in our top ten most wanted for decades. We don't usually work with Devil Eaters-"

"You kill them," Marlow snarled. _Shit!_ He should've denied being a Devil Eater-

"-But we're granting you a chance, a single chance, because you survived where the rest have crashed and burned," she continued without pause. "You can either join us, or that heart monitor to your immediate left will flatline. Your choice."

Now Marlow was truly afraid. If the FBNE killed him, the agents would move on to hurt Cecil, his family, everyone... then Mundus would catch his soul and it'd all be over. If he worked for those soulless bastards, then once his part was done they'd put him in a lab for paranormal study and never be seen again.

There was no way out of this situation.

"One... condition," Marlow rasped.

"You have no room to negotiate here."

"Nothing happens to my friends, my... family. If anything happens to them, I'll unleash hell on your... little witch hunt." A lie. Well, a half-truth. He hoped.

She looked at him for a long time, her eyes narrowed, making him wish she was still wearing her shades. Finally, Walked popped open her suitcase and pulled out Marlow's cursed knife, laying it on the bed next to his arm. "Accepted."

* * *

><p>Marlow was released from Belleview Emergency Care after one week. One week of pus, scabs, and enough itching to make him molt five times over. He wasn't done healing- far from it, walking out of the hospital was enough of an effort for him to put his hands on his knees and pant for breath- but the FBNE wanted him. His comfort was not their concern.<p>

His clothes having been incinerated, he was provided an austere, dark suit- a copy of Walker's- in their stead. Marlow had found it unsettling that it fit his frame perfectly- they knew him inside and out- but then again, he had always expected that he had slipped up somewhere. An untrustworthy client. A passerby on the street. An overheard payphone conversation. Anything.

"Whitechapel?"

Marlow looked up at the black sedan idling in front of him, windows tinted, bulletproofed wheels. A dark suited strongman was holding the rear door open, sunglasses gleaming with a hint of a threat.

Straightening his shoulders Marlow slid into the car next to another agent. The man came in after him. Wonderful.

In the front passenger seat, Walker turned around to look at Marlow. "We're returning to the Maple Street residence. I want you to tell us everything that happened. Every move, every attack. The tiniest of details. If you have difficulty concentrating, we have memory drugs for you." The man sitting on Marlow left tapped his gloved fingers against a black briefcase.

"Okay." He paused, scratching at his newly-shaven head. This... wasn't unnerving, or anything. "Why do you want to hunt this devil- Arco- so badly?"

The agents on Marlow's sides stilled, and Walker stared at him blankly. The driver slowed slightly. Marlow had the sudden thought that this conversation was being recorded.

"What did you call it?"

"The devil? His name is L'Arcophraxeles. Well, that's what he told me, anyway. I'm probably pronouncing that wrong. Sounds kinda southern French-"

"It_ spoke_ to you? In English? Not in tongues?"

"Uh, yeah. You didn't know devils can speak human languages?"

Walker frowned. "We are very well aware of that. Serial Code 13616 has never been reported to speak."

"You call them by numbers?"

"You know better than anyone that devils can draw power from their names. Incantations. Rites. Summonings. These all hinge on a devil's true name."

Marlow fought the urge to cock an eyebrow. That theory of demonology- using 'true' names to evoke spirits- was an ancient and completely baseless one. That the FBNE used it meant that they were either true experts or truly clueless.

He opened his mouth to speak, but one of Walker's agents put a strong hand on his shoulder. "From this point onward, do not use the devil's true name. Do not speak, write, or otherwise communicate it in any shape or form. Do not think it." The grip tightened uncomfortably. "Understood?"

Marlow's mouth closed with a click. "Yeah. Uh... sure."

Marlow could feel the questions churning in Walker's head, but the rest of the ride passed in tense silence. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes later, the car pulled up onto Belleview's Maple Street- just across the lane from where Marlow's car had been.

"Where's my car?"

Undergoing forensic paranormal analysis." Walker stepped out of the car, and her guards did the same, one at a time. When Marlow hesitated, he felt the barrel of a gun prod into his back. "Out of the car."

He had never gotten out of a car faster.

Walked stood expectantly in the driveway as Marlow slowly walked up to the burnt shell of a house, his breath misting in the chill air of another overcast Illinois morning. It was still mainly intact, but from the look of it, just stomping around inside could bring it down on his head. Marlow crouched down and picked up a small burnt scrap of **_POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS_** tape. Funny, how it withered. Like a sad yellow petal.

"How long ago had you learned about this devil?"

Marlow almost wasn't surprised that Walker had appeared at his shoulder. "Um. Two days ago. Walk-in client. Haggard kind of guy, twitchy, never stood still, all fearful. Something you'd expect out of a pulp magazine. Gave me all the info I needed- except his name."

"The photographs."

So they had searched his car. Great. "Yeah. Those."

"Did you ever consider that the 'client' was the devil in question, just in a new form to lure you out?"

"Always a possibility... but I didn't give it much thought," Marlow admitted, slightly annoyed. The client wasn't a demon, but the 'I just know' line never worked.

"Why did this devil take interest in you?"

Marlow poked at a blackened rosebush, and it disintegrated into ash. He fought the urge to sneeze. "How the fuck should I know? Why did it target _this_ family? Why now? Why'd it let _me_ live? I don't_ know_, alright? I'm trying to piece this shit together myself," he snapped, exhaustion from the burn treatment taking its toll. He smiled inwardly; suddenly, Marlow was getting a bit better at lying.

Walker crossed her arms. "I issue the questions."

"Just one more: why do you even_ care?_ You federal assholes let small-time curses go all the time. Innocents- _children_- go up in flames like this every day of the fucking week, thanks to your 'non-intervention policy' bullshit. Why the change of heart, _Inspector_?"

Too far. Walker's mouth became a thin line. Marlow's shoulders sagged as shame seeped into his heart. "Look, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"What did the devil say to you, Whitechapel?" she asked quietly, a little more intently. He realized that the three guards were out of earshot, carefully analyzing the spot where Marlow's car had been with small forensic computers.

Marlow opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly the wind picked up and ash blew into his face- he coughed, sputtered, and tasted something odd-

"Shit. _Shit_. He's here._ It's_ here. We need to go."

Walker didn't waste a moment.

* * *

><p><em>Don't worry. Some actual devil hunting will come along soon.<em>


End file.
